


Death is my mother

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 01:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: My reply to a challenge involving the writing of a relationship and dialogue between Richelieu and Death personified.Those who know me were aware of the mental health shitstorm that would inevitably follow.Prepare for dark, dark imagery.





	1. Twenty-three death sentences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lustig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/gifts).



 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know for how long Charpentier has been standing like that, but he looks bloody ridiculous, stiff as a broom in the middle of the study with his papers in his hand. I glare at him as I stride from the shelves to the work table. He usually calls me when his task is done, why the hell does he keep his lips shut tight now?

Why is he looking at me like I could eat his heart raw?

What’s wrong with everybody these days?

I pass him by with a low growl and yank the letters out of his fingers. Visibly relieved, he hurries to leave the room, and _this_ is the only quick gesture he has granted me since this morning, _oh no you won’t._

I lift an imperious finger in front of his face.

-“Stay.” I hiss.

He flops back on his chair with a heavy thump and a dry gulping sound. He’s looking at me in fear, paling by the second, but I don’t have time to waste on a weak-hearted moron. I slam the papers on the table near the window and skim though them with impatience. _Pfah._ The copying is mediocre at best, and Charpentier’s irritating habit to draw his margins too narrow is horribly conspicuous. I hear the clerk squirm in unease behind my back as I let out furious curses.

 _Good._ I am served by idiots, and it’s about time they know it.

I bloody hate those margins, but time is short. We leave Bordeaux in three days and I want business to be in order by then. I extend my hand towards Charpentier and snap my fingers for a quill. I feel it placed in my hand and count the letters one last time.

Twenty-three. They’re all there.  
_Twenty-three death sentences._

 

Lifting only the bottom of each sheet, I sign them all in a minute, hand them back to Charpentier, and spin around to stride back to the maps, going once more through the list of strongholds to be erased from them.

I’m at number seventeen when I realize the clerk still hasn’t left the room, _oh for God’s sake why do they all have to be so sluggish?_ Snarling, I glance at Charpentier over my shoulder, watching him frozen in terror, staring at the letters clutched in his hands.

-“Well?” I spit.

He looks up to me, trembling, babbling a few useless words before he manages a decent sentence :

-“Your Eminence” He pleads. “Doesn’t the usual procedure for state treason involve at least a day of trial between arrest and sentencing?”

 

My fingers twitch upon the maps _, how dare you?_

I narrow my eyes and straighten my back, using my height and the ruffling of my robes as a clear warning while I walk close, hammering each one of my words.

-“I have been named Generalissime of the armies by the King of France, Charpentier, and charged with the repression of the Guyenne riots. I am to be obeyed as Louis himself would, and if I decide I don’t need a trial to know those twenty bastards are guilty, it is not to be questioned by my own _clerk_.”

I hissed the last word between clenched teeth as I loomed over the table, eyes fixed on Charpentier’s throat. The man will yield, I know him by heart. He’s already inching away from me, as if I was made of Hell’s own fire, but I can’t resist the sheer pleasure of growling one last sentence to the back of his neck.

-“Now carry those orders, or I swear I’ll make you write your own and watch me as I sign it.”

 

Charpentier gasps, to my utter frustration more in sadness than in fear, _why are you sad, useless idiot, you should be quivering._

He gathers the letters and runs outside, stuttering a few unconvinced apologies, but I barely listen, my mind already listing cities again. As the door slams shut I rush to the table, I’ve wasted enough time.

 

I am not letting myself be slowed down by lowlifes anymore.

 

I am Duke, Pair de France, Minister and advisor.  
I am absolute, unparalleled, unstoppable.

On these lands I am both law and morality, Earth and Heavens.  
_So I can be death itself if I bloody choose to._

I pick up the quill again and modify the maps, underlining the Huguenot cities that have been deprived of their fortifications, circling the ones where it still needs to be done, good, next I’ll be reviewing the tax accounts, where are the letters from the governor?

Reaching up for the cardboard folder on the table I knock over a pile of books and let out a loud string of profanities as they fall over my feet. I crouch to pick them up, stand quickly, and all of a sudden, the whole world goes black.

I instinctively grip the rim of the work table tight, feeling shudders of cold sweat rippling down my back, _no_.

No, I can’t be delayed, I created the State of France, only I can maintain it _.  
_The King needs me, _Minister and advisor, unparalleled and unquestioned._  


I shake my head, blinking darkness off my eyes, but I hear the books I was holding in my hand stumble back upon the floor. I hear myself panting, I feel myself shaking, but I refuse to let go, only I can do that work, I am served by idiots.

I only see blurred lines and patches of colour, and that bloody map doesn't speak to me anymore, so I find the quill and a blank sheet of paper, throwing the rest of my list there to be worked upon when y vision clears. Then, I grab the tax accounts book. Time is short, France needs me, _come on, useless pile of flesh, you can't fail me, I will not be delayed._

I have been chosen for this work by the hands of fate itself.

I have been placed by God’s own will upon the heights where I belonged.

 

One of my knees buckles under my weight and I utter a pitiful whine, laying both hands on the rim of the table, no, I will not fall, not this time, not anymore. I’ll never be miserable again. I am Duke, Pair de France.

Both Earth and Heavens, _sometimes death itself._

I bite the inside of my cheeks to whip me awake, and verify 50 pages of accounts with one hand still grabbing the table. I ignore the frozen sweat dripping down my spine, forcing my whimpers of pain back into my throat. I feel dizzy, but I won’t sit down. I feel nauseous, but I won’t rest.

80 pages, the headache rises, and there’s that indistinct whispering somewhere, _no_ , I will not surrender. I am Minster and advisor, unique and essential, I’ll never be vulnerable again.

100 pages, and I have to drop my quill, because I cannot read what I’m writing, the headache is burning holes into my brain, and the voices, the voices are getting louder.

 

I know, somehow I always know. The power, the glory, it’s all a lie.  
In my brightest daylights, I know darkness will always come, because I know it never leaves.

  
My darkness cannot be pushed away.  
Because it lies _within._

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling exhausted tears rolling down my chin, _no, come on, pointless pile of bones,_ there is still so much work to be done, the State is helpless without me. I have no time to waste, to time to rest. I’ll eat another day, I’ll sleep when I’ll be dead.

They will all yield, they will all obey, for I am unstoppable, _I can be death itself._

 

I reach for the next book of accounts, but both knees buckle this time, and the world darkens again, no, _I cannot._

I grip the table tight, but my hands have no strength anymore, and I start to sway backwards, no, _I will not._

The Earth is cold, Heavens are gone, and as blackness beckons, I hear the voices laughing.

 

The power, the glory, it’s all a lie.  
I know, I always know somehow.

Darkness cannot be pushed away.  
Because it waits for me _within._

 

 

 

I fall, I hit the ground, I yell in agony. I can’t see, I can’t hear, the voices are calling.

  
I am Duke and Pair de France, I cannot, not yet.

_Please._

 

 

 

*** 


	2. Fifty thousand other names

I hear fire roaring, and for a moment I almost hope I am in Hell.

But I feel the gentle touch of silken sheets, and the comforting weight of fur covers. The smell of herbs welcomes me like an old friend, and if I shift my hands a little, I feel a rosary has been placed into them.  
It only means two things.

  
I haven't died, and Joseph is here.

I open my eyes, blinking thick clots of dried tears and fever sweat off the corners of my eyelids. No hellish cave, no Judgement day. I'm in the bedroom that's been prepared for me in the Convent of Bellevue, all curtains drawn to keep daylight away, and on a chair next to me, of course, is perched the dark silhouette of my Ezekielli.  
This could be good, this could be safe, but by the eyes of my dearest friend, I understand the place I’m in right now is worse, so much worse than Hell.  
By the worried eyes of Joseph, and by those of my mother.

She's there, standing close to him, in hues of yellow and grey, not a spark of life in her tired eyes, and wearing the dress she's been buried in.  
She's there, she's back, and that’s how low I have fallen.

-”Good morning, Armand”, she says, caring, compassionate, and her voice would be such a sweet memory, if it wasn't rumbling with the dirt of her grave.  
-”Mother.” I whimper, pleading, trying to get up, failing miserably, God, have mercy, everything shakes, everything hurts.

Joseph next to her has a jump and seems to notice I am awake. He leans towards me then, laying a solid, rugged hand on my heart, and inspects my face with a familiar concern.  
-”Eminence?” he calls, but I barely look at him.

My mother just sat on the bed, arranging the covers over my legs, humming that lullaby she sang for Henri and me, and I cannot move, I cannot crawl, I cannot breathe.  
Moments ago I was almighty, moments ago I was supreme. I was Minister and Advisor, essential and unquestioned.

Now I'm lying here pointless and shivering, wasting my best friend's time and talking to a corpse.  
The power, the glory, it’s all a lie.  
I know, I always know somehow.

  
I am not able, I am not worthy. I'm only weak, sickly and mad.  
I am nothing more than a sad fraud.

 

I burst into tears, unable to control myself, rolling on the side with a pathetic whine and burying my face into my hands. I wanted to feel magnificent, I wanted to feel alive. I was sure I’d never be vulnerable again.  
-”Now, don't cry, mon petit.” Mother whispers, and Joseph mumbles something about medicine, but I'm barely listening.  
I am clutching the sheets, trying to inch away from the frozen corpse of my mother, the plain wooden rosary shaking between my fingers, but everything hurts, dear God, everything shakes.

-”Please, mother, please go away.” I beg, and Joseph curses under his breath, getting up to rush somewhere near the cupboard.  
She takes advantage of him leaving to shift closer, and I wail in raw fear, stealing a glance over my shoulder at the black dirt falling from her hair.  
-”I am not your mother, Armand.” She cajoles, smiling sweetly. “Your mother died seventeen years ago, worn out by a merciless life and the madness of her children, don't you remember?”  
I close my eyes tight, my breath cut in pieces, because I remember far too well. She died in winter, her skin withered and her bones frail, while I was in Paris devoting all my time and strength trying to seduce the Medici into giving me a spot under the sun. As I received Henri’s letter I cried, I swear I cried until my eyes burned, but instead of rushing back home I begged my brother to delay the burial until I took care of urgent business.  
But urgent business never seemed to match my hopes at that time, and gaining influence was a struggle that devoured my days and nights. Concini was about to be killed, the power alliances were spinning fast, there was a world of opportunities to seize, and before I realized the passing of days, I got another note from Henri.  
It had been a month since mother died, and he had to bury her without me, because the sealed lead casket was starting to reek, and people in town were starting to _talk._

I understood, then, that my last goodbye to my mother had been half-muttered promises to be back for Christmas Eve as I left her for the Louvre, more than three long years before, and beyond the acidic pain of loss, I started to sense exactly what kind of sacrifices my purpose was going to ask of me.

No, this corpse is not my mother. I know exactly what it is.

-”I am your Death, my love.” She whispers into my ear. “And I bear the face of your first grief.”

I can’t stop my tears. I can’t help my sobs, God, have mercy, I was sure I’d never feel miserable again. But misery is there, and she has taken the face of my mother ever since Henri’s second note, with every fall, with every wound, and God knows there has been many.

  
I know exactly what she is.  
She’s the darkness that lies within.

 

-“Are you in pain, Armand?”She asks, laying her cold hand on mine, leaving black soil upon my skin.  
I let out a low whimper. Yes, I am in pain. Everything shakes, everything hurts. My head is a buzzing machine of agony, and fire burns inside, all over my bones, smothering my heart. I am broken, meaningless, destitute, not even the shadow of who I was.

  
Moments ago I was Duke and pair de France.  
Absolute and essential.  
I was higher than death itself.  
But Death, by now, is pulling the covers on my shoulder with a greyish, dusty hand bearing the blackest nails I have ever seen, and I am but a worm at the mercy of her stare.

  
The glory, the power. It has always been a lie.

  
I knew, I always knew somehow, and yet I let it all devour my life, and left my mother to be buried without even one last blessing.

-“Don’t you want it to end?” She keeps whispering, her soft loving voice covered in a thick layer of dust. “Don’t you want all of this, the sickness, the torture, to be gone forever from your mind? No more duties, my dear child, no more burden. I will be there to take you in my arms forevermore, in a world without pain.”

Yes. Please, yes.  
Sobbing, I fumble to reach for her and grab the side of her dress. Yes, I want it gone, yes, I want it over. I want to be free from the dark, even if it is by falling headfirst into it.

  
-“Charpentier, help me with that draught.” I hear Joseph call, and I look aside with a confused frown.

Charpentier.  
God, Charpentier, my loyal clerk, my long-time companion, what have I dared to say to you?  
With painful effort I focus long enough to see my secretary striding towards Joseph to assist him as he carefully blends two white liquids into one cup. They whisper to each other for a while and at some point Charpentier throws me a long, utterly drained glance.

He despises me. Of course he does, I’ve been nothing but cruel to him, though he sacrificed most of his life to my service. Neglected, unrewarded, he stayed nevertheless, his faith in me often higher than my own.  
I shift further into the bed, mortified, desperate, a mournful whine escaping my throat.

I am nothing but a nuisance. The plague of this country.  
I hear them, I hear them all, the laughing voices, the ghosts of my sins, the ghouls of my crimes. They're all around, all the time, waiting in the dark until I stumble and fall.

  
The bitterness of those I have abused and tortured.  
The insults of those I exiled and disgraced.  
The despair of those I had executed.  
The cries of agony the walls of La Rochelle couldn't smother.

Henri, Françoise, Nicole.

Mother.

 

-“Come to me, Armand.” Death soothes, then, catching back my attention. “Come to me, and I will lift all this remorse, all those regrets off your wary, worn-out heart. You will sleep, my love, my child, liberated from the horrors your fate has forced you to commit.”

Oh God, I hear them. I hear them all, the cries, the despair, the insults, the bitterness, all the pain that I have caused, all the ravages of my deeds.  
I am nothing but a monster. I am the sickness of these lands.

-“Please!” I cry, trembling in exhaustion, burning with fever. “Please, take me away. Let me die, let me die at last, no hellfire could hurt more than the agony of being me.”

  
The corpse of Mother only smiles, and I think she mutters something sweet, but the sound of her dusty voice is covered by the thunder of Joseph’s outrage. He drops the cup on the cupboard with a terrifying rumble and runs back to me to grab both sides of my face and make me look up at him.

  
-“You have no right to call for death!” He shouts, furious, bitter, threatening. “You are much too important to the world, Eminence, you are destined for History, and no matter the pain, you cannot leave everything we have built unfinished!”  
He hisses, then, lower, pointing a finger in my Death's vague direction.  
-”There’s nothing there, Eminence. Nothing. It’s only in your mind. Ignore it, for God’s sake, ignore the beckoning of the demon, you’re much, much better than this!”

Though he's holding me tight, I still avert my eyes to search for my mother's face as she sits comfortably behind him, patting the sheets, pulling he covers, humming that song again.  
Henri adored this song.  
Henri, my second grief. One more piece of my own heart I couldn't keep safe from the absurdity of this world. One more name in the endless list of my failures.

  
Henri, Françoise, Nicole.

Mother.

-”I'm no better than anyone, Ezekielli.” I breathe, my tired gaze following her blackened nails upon my covers. “I never was. No matter what we build, I am bound to ruin it soon or later with my own misjudgement. I am worthless, Joseph, fate has been wrong, and anyone else could do this work.”  
-”Eminence!” He growls as a warning, but I simply grab his sleeve and weep.  
-”Please, I beg you, if you love what's left of me just slit my throat, make it quick, and let France rejoice to be rid of my presence, Joseph, please!”

He doesn't move. He doesn't say a thing.  
He stares at me instead, his hands around my face start to tremble, and his breath becomes short, rasping huffs. It lasts long enough for my eyes to search and focus on his, Joseph, my stronghold, my support, Joseph, why are you crying?

-”This is not you talking.” He stammers after a while, his dreamy stare blurred by tears. “This ... this can't be you.”  
-”Ezekielli...”  
-”No!” he hisses, letting go of me to stand back up, lifting a shaking finger towards my face. “Not a word! Not a single word.”  
Turning away from me, he calls Charpentier, and the clerk gives him the cup he has been warming up in the fireplace. Joseph spins around, then, grabs the back of my neck, lifts me up as if I was a mere puppet, and pushes the cup against my lips.  
-”Drink up.” He says, and this very much sounds like an order.

This doesn't smell like my herbs at all. It's that poppy draught he uses to help me sleep, only a lot stronger.  
I think I can count on my fingers the times I have seen my dear, stone-hearted Joseph desperate enough to drug me into silence. Panicked, I struggle faintly into his grasp, no, please, I don't want to sleep, I want to -  
-” Do as he says, my child”. Death gently cuts in.”It's fine, you know. I'll just wait here.”  
I freeze, gazing at the dirt-plastered face of my long-dead mother, and swallow a short sob. Shuddering in pain, I reluctantly show obedience, opening my mouth to gulp down the bland, creamy liquid.  
Meanwhile, Mother arranges her dirty hair, making thick handfuls of soil splatter on the covers she just pulled on.  
-”Henri will be so happy to see you, Armand.” She mutters distractedly.”He misses you so much, you know. Firefly, he always called you. His little firefly, because he always found you in his bedroom at night, alone in the dark with your little glowing candle, asking to be reassured from another nightmare of yours.”

Henri, my dearest brother.  
Henri, Françoise, Nicole, mother.

And fifty thousand other names I will never know about.

As I empty the cup, Joseph calms down a little, sighing against my forehead and softly easing me back down on the bed.  
-”Thank you, Eminence” He says. “You'll see, you'll be much better soon. You'll be yourself again, and by God's will, all of this will be behind us.”

No it won't, no it never will.  
I can't push back darkness, _for darkness lies within._

  
I whine, feeling a rush of cold creeping up my spine, and I try to grab his robe, I try to keep him close, don't leave me Joseph, I wish I could say, don't leave me please.  
The drug, it always gives nightmares, I wish I could say, but I can only exhale a sad gasp as my hand falls, lifeless, upon the covers.

  
Cold creeps up, darkness falls, and as I fall into a pit of blurred torment, the voices of my crime, the ghosts of my mistakes, they only cheer in victory.

 

Dinner is served.

 

***


	3. Daybreak

I wake up with a throaty cry as the door bangs open.

  
It makes no difference.

 

 

The ghosts, they're still there, limping around my bed, yelling curses at my name, their dead, hollow stares fixed upon my face, may they come from two, ten, or twenty years ago. They're all here, screaming in rage, grabbing my ankles, pulling my hair, _it's time to pay_ , they chant, _it's time to die._  
This drug, I know, always gives me nightmares.  
Only this time, waking up won't make them stop.

 _It's time to pay, Monster_  
_It's time to die._

And Death, she is waiting, right as she promised, on Joseph's chair next to my bed, a neat circle of greyish dust gathered on the floor around her dress.  
-”Welcome back, my love.” She whispers, gentle, and I move to hold her hand.

But the door slams shut, and I jolt at the pain of that sound hammering in my head, searching the darkened room over my mother's shoulder. Footsteps approach. I gasp in terror.  
I know those steps, I know them by heart.  
I'll know them all my life; I was born to follow them.  
The silhouette comes close, and I'd recognize this smell of leather and rain anywhere. I let out a pleading whine and crawl deep into the bed, no, please, not now, not like this, I always managed to hide these moments of mine before.

 

But eventually a strong, warm hand comes to cup my chin and lift my face up. I don't see much, I hear nothing. The ghosts are everywhere, yelling insults, dancing in the dark, and each one of their frozen faces is a reminder of the curse my existence has been for this country I love so much.  
-”Send him away, Armand” Mother asks, her voice a bit strained. “He doesn't belong here.”

I look up at her, she sounds upset, she sounds afraid. There are thick, white specks of soil falling from her mouth as she grimaces in displeasure and dear God, I believe they're maggots.  
Shivering, coughing up a few cries, I'm still kept into place by the gauging hand, and beyond the racket of the ghosts, I hear a voice I was born to obey.  
-“I knew it.” It growls. “I knew it the moment I read Joseph’s letter. The old monk can’t lie to me anymore, I know what ‘delay due to unexpected fever’ means.”

Upon a subtle caress, the hand leaves my face, and the smell of leather fades away. I whimper, trying to follow as I always do, but my body refuses me. All around, the dead faces exult, _he's gone,_ they chant, _he's gone, it’s time to pay, monster, it’s time to die,_ and mother joins her hands upon her lap with triumph in her dull eyes.  
Yet, instead of walking out, the silhouette goes straight to the windows and in three forceful moves, pulls all the curtains open. I shriek in pain, covering my eyes with shaking hands, but my cries are nothing compared to the bawling of the ghosts.  
With each thunder of light breaking into the room they contort and fade, yelling in fury as they crawl backwards into the receding darkness. By the opening of the third curtain, there is nowhere in the room for them to hide except the far end, near the door, where even my mother now has gone. Through my fingers I see her standing there, blurred with a thousand angry shadows, her face contorted in thwarting.  
-“I told you to send him away, my child,” she scorns, “but you never truly listen, do you?”

I wish I could prove her wrong, but I can’t, because it’s true, I’m already looking away, drawn to the man standing in front of the windows with every fibre of my being.

  
Daybreak has pushed the nightmares away, and he’s watching me with quiet willpower on his tanned face, his arms crossed upon his chest, bathing in a blinding, golden glow.

I breathe a little more freely for the first time in months.

 

My King is there.  
_Sunlight has come._

 

 

Louis, I want to call, but my throat is dried and burning. He doesn’t mind. He walks closer again, his eyes never leaving mine, and by the smaller figure trotting to his side, I realize he came in with Charpentier.  
My King frowns at the state of me, and I wish I could disappear into the Earth, see, Louis, this is why I never wanted you to witness this. Please, look away, I am unworthy of your gaze, please, just –

-“How long since he last ate?” Sunlight asks the clerk, still inspecting every inch of me.  
-“He never asked for any food, Your Majesty, he-...”  
-“This is not what I asked.”  
-“... four days. Maybe more.”

With That, Louis turns to him, eyes widened and glowering, and he leans slightly towards my secretary, his voice like a whetstone sharpening a sword.  
-“Charpentier, you and I have a thing in common.” He hisses, pointing towards me. “May we like it or not, this man is vital to our lives. So do yourself a favour, drop whatever grudge you're holding against him and fetch the thickest broth these old nuns can make, because if you don't, he’ll be dead by tomorrow and I swear to God, so will you. "

 

My loyal clerk makes a soft gulping sound, darting a confused glance at me at first. Then, as I desperately fight to hold his gaze and keep still, his eyes grow somewhat fonder, and he gives a short bow before he runs to the door, passing through the cloud of ghosts as if it was nothing.

Mother is still standing in the last square of darkness, fidgeting in impatience, murmuring unrelated words I can barely pick up. I wish I could hear her right, but I can’t, because my King just sat on the bed, so close to me my whole body tingled, and is handing me a glass of water. I look up to him, feeling tears roll down my cheeks once more, mouthing apologies I cannot speak. He doesn’t mind. He helps me drink up, and that plain, lukewarm water might just taste like Heaven itself. I hear mother hiss in disgust, and my stare flies back to her.  
When I look at Louis again, I think he has followed my eyes, because as he takes back my empty glass his frown deepens and he very softly asks:  
-“What is it that you see over there?”

I cough, shuddering, licking my chapped lips a few times, trying not to look at my mother fuming into the windstorm of the fifty thousand people I killed.  
-“My death.” I painfully utter. “My death is my mother.”  
My King’s brow knits further still, his lips shut tight for a while. Then, cautiously, he speaks again:  
-“What is she doing?” He says.

I slowly turn my head to the side. Mother’s scorn instantly fades into a welcoming smile again, and she reaches out for me, careful not to touch the fierce sunlight. “My son”, she breathes, and I give her a dreamy sigh.  
-“She is waiting for me to take her hand.” I tell Louis. “So she relieves this world of the burden I am.”

I hear him snarl like a wounded animal first, and he harshly lets his hands hit the pillows on both sides of my head, but his voice remain ever soft, ever tentative as he whispers.  
-”Do you want to die, Armand?”

My mother nods, slick worms crawling between her teeth, and beckons me in the dark once more. I feel myself smiling for her, but before I truly do, my King grabs my chin again, more commanding this time. He forces my head back towards him, and my damaged breath hitches at how beautiful, how divine he has always been.  
-”Look at me in the eyes, Armand, and dare tell me you want to die.”

His long dark curls are falling on my cheeks, and I'm afraid to soil them with sweat and tears. The smell of leather and rain is more intense as he leans down upon me, and I remember the sharp angle of his jaw was the first thing I ever saw in him.

  
Louis de France, my King, my love.  
I have spent my life reaching for him, fighting my way up to his shoulder, selling my soul for a chance to offer myself to him. I have worked for endless days, I have planned for sleepless nights. I have designed battles, systems, laws and trade routes; I have listed more ideas for the future than a hundred men could have.  
I have craved, I have strived for the warmth of his presence, praying to him more than I ever prayed to God. I have waited for fifteen years, disguised as the shadow of his mother before the gates of his Council finally opened for me, and I remember that even then, the sharp angle of his jaw was still the most attractive thing I found in him.  
I was born to obey his voice. I was born to follow his steps.  
My mind was made for his service, my hands were carved for his skin.

I worn myself out with restless joy to lay down a new France at his feet, and as he gradually welcomed me close, I started to understand the true meaning of fate.  
I can't leave him. Sometimes I even wonder how I can turn my eyes away from him and still stand on my both feet. He is my air, my purpose, my master, my hope.  
He is the reason this wretched life of mine is worth suffering through.

 

He is my King.  
My own sunlight.

 

Through sheer effort I manage to lift an unsteady hand up to his handsome face, and brush the side of his jaw for a heartbeat or two before it falls back on my heart.  
-”I don't.” I let out, and he exhales a shaking sigh, tension crumbling from his shoulders.

He lowers his head with a pleased groan and let our foreheads touch. I'm sticky, burning, and miserable. He doesn't mind.  
-”Good.” He breathes, a smile rising into his voice. “Very good, my Moon.”  
He lays a hasty kiss on the brink of my nose, then pulls away and has a curious glance towards the dark corner of the room, and even though I know he sees nothing wrong there, he looks like he could gaze right though my mother's unbeating heart.  
-”Can she see me?” He inquires.  
I nod.  
-”What is she doing now?” He goes on.

I turn to her. She recoiled against the doorframe, her lips trembling in sorrow, and her face would be soaked in tears, if there was anything else than dust inside her skull. She joined her hands on her heart and implores me in silence, her dimmed eyes speaking of the agony of all the mothers of the earth.  
Even surrounded by fifty thousand tortured souls howling damnation at my face, she looks like a saint, forlorn and betrayed, crucified by the ungratefulness of her own blood.

I've seen her play that part so many times, when life was still colouring her cheeks. She could perform every day, for lawyers or creditors, beggars or noblemen. She didn't argue, she never shouted, she just fell on her knees and cried, and how often her tricks did work.  
I know, because they worked just a fine when I used them.

-”What my mother would have done.” I reply, and Louis, of course, doesn't understand.  
But then again, he doesn't mind.  
-”Stay with me.” He simply orders, gently pushing my face away from her with two of his fingertips.  
-”Yes.” I breathe.

I was born to obey his voice.

 

 

The door opens timidly again, and Louis instinctively straightens his back. Charpentier comes in with a large steaming bowl, passing through the dark with a compliant smile, and lays it down on Joseph's chair with a sturdy wooden spoon.  
The clerk gently takes my hand, then, and as he drops a polite kiss on my knuckles, I feel the weight of my guilt dissipating under a rush of warmth wrapping around my heart.  
I tend to forget that sometimes, surviving shame is the only way to get a chance for forgiveness.  
-”Thank you, my excellent man.” I laboriously tell him as he walks away. “I owe a lot to your patience.”  
His grin widens, and he bows so low I worry for his backache.  
-”Always at your service, Your Eminence.” He muses, and hurries outside.

Before he closes the door Louis throws, picking up the bowl and spoon :  
-”Lock the door. We will not be disturbed until tonight.”

The gates shut, and the locks dutifully click twice. My King hauls me up in the bed with one hand under my arm, then, and ignoring my weak protests; he takes a spoonful of broth and lifts it to my mouth. I hear mother sobbing in despair, “you don't need that” she shouts, “you need _my_ care!”, and as I am tempted to look at her, Louis clicks his tongue and shakes his head.  
-”With me, Armand.” He demands.

When I give in, my skin ripples in pleasure despite raw exhaustion.  
I open my mouth, and he takes all the time he needs to carefully feed me. With each spoonful he murmurs a gentle praise, or hums in endearment, and I barely recognize the most impatient King of Europe, the one who could grab a servant's throat for a meal served a few minutes late. He looks worried, but not the slightest bit afraid, and it makes the cries of the ghosts a bit less ominous perhaps.  
When the bowl is properly empty he quickly gets up to put it away, and terror clutches my guts before I know it, making me whimper in panicked loss.

  
-”Oh, don't worry", he throws over his shoulder as he drops the bowl on the cupboard. “I'm not leaving you with...this.”

  
He has a tilt of the head towards the door, and mother lets out a disdainful hiss, but I don't even spare her a glance.  
Because Louis, my love, my sunlight, is taking his clothes off with the peacefulness of the righteous, and doesn't stop until he's wearing none but his thin shirt. He walks to the bed, glorious in yellow light, and slips next to me without a care for the disgusting touch of my damp, feverish skin. He light-heartedly wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me towards him, guiding my head on his chest, don't touch my hair, please, it's filthy, I -

-”Now you listen to me carefully.” He hammers patiently, with another nod towards the door. “I know you see something there, I know you hear voices too, but I am here, in that bed with you, and I want you to close your eyes. Will you obey me, my Moon?”

-”Yes.” I exhale, eager to bury my face in the fabric of his shirt, and squeezing my eyes tight upon the faint sounds of my mother's cries.

She doesn't bother to scream anymore. She sobs by principle, that's all.  
That's what she always did when she knew her efforts had been in vain.

 

  
-”Very good.” My King rewards, and his thumb draws a lazy circle on my cheekbone. “Listen, Armand, listen outside the windows. The rain is falling, do you hear it?”

I frown, biting my lips, trying with all I have to pick up any other sound than the unstitched voices of my remorse, and after a while, in the distance, I do hear droplets of rain tapping against the window planes.  
I nod, then, vehemently, gasping in joy at the sweet song of reality.

-”Good.” Louis says. “Focus on the rain. Be good to your King and listen to nothing else but my voice, and the rain. There’s a summer storm outside, and it always makes all of nature explode. When I’ll take you back to Paris, the smell of the forest will be intense along the road. Do you hear the wind? The horses have been nervous all day. The dogs barely left my feet. They might be in fear, right now, but they will see, after the storm, the grass greener, the skies clearer and the woods around bubbling with wildlife.”

His words are quiet, monotonous and self assured, softly pushing my attention away from the dark, towards the fiery skies outside, and with each sentence of his, my body slowly lets go of weeks and weeks of pressure. The warm broth spreads comforting heat inside, and I think the shaking of my hands might be receding at last.

-” We will make a halt in Royan, and I'll take you to the sea. Then we'll stay in Angers, where there's that library you like. And after all of this, if you've been good and got strong enough I'll have us make a final stage in Versailles, I'll lock you in my apartments and dismiss everyone else. If you have been good to me, Armand, I'll make love to you there, again and again until you beg me to let you sleep. When there won't be an inch of your skin I haven’t licked or kissed, you won't be thinking of death anymore. You'll be purring like a cat under my caress again and already itching to get back to whatever insane work you set on your shoulders, now, won't you like that, my shadow in red?”

 

I will, dear God I will, and I worship every word he is kindly granting me, but though I might never tell him, what makes the last echoes of my carnival of Death fade out, and allow me into my first peaceful sleep is not the soft promises of his voice.

 

  
It is his own heartbeat, steady and eternal under his heaving chest, that will be forevermore the best song life will have to offer me.


End file.
